Shine
by APat96
Summary: Changing it up a little. What if Luke and Annabeth had pursued a relationship? If there had been no wars, and they had been permitted to lead normal lives? Would their relationship be solid, secure, or would the pieces just not fit together the way they planned?


**Snow Day**

Tears streamed down the windows, making neat little pathways as they went; little beads of water hinting at uneven temperatures.

Invisible wolves howled outside, the force of their breath rattling the building's frame. Frost in abundance—slippery, shiny shellac that was both beautiful and deadly, coating the ground and dusting the doors. It was a day so cold that even the skaters who congregated on the frozen pond every morning had failed to show.

Inside their tiny room, the tenement in which they lived, the temperature was warmer—still below freezing point, but warmer nonetheless. It was quiet, too; it appeared everyone had the idea of remaining indoors.

Tucked beneath the fraying blanket, their skin housed within a cacophony of actions—beating heart, breathing lungs, twitching fingers. Their bed, with its metal frame, the stage: all surrounding furniture merely and audience. Daylight's first noise came as the 6:30 train prattled through beneath them, in the belly of the city.

She was already awake when he began to stir—she didn't move, didn't make a sound, but her body was held in place with an aura of someone conscious to the outside world.

"Good morning," she whispered, rolling onto her side to look at him. Her hair swept behind her, falling in a mess of tangled curls.

"Morning," he mumbled back, pulling the blankets up to his chin. His sleepy eyes struggled to adjust to the light, stark white against deep blue. _Damn_, it was cold.

"I know," she shrugged, as if she could read his mind. "But it's only just for now, right Luke?"

He didn't respond.

A sigh came sliding from her pursed lips, which settled into a grimace. She fell onto her back and stared pointlessly up at the ceiling; her eyes traced the cracks as if running through a maze, deftly avoiding the bumpy yellow watermarks. Yesterday it had been the wallpaper—orange, patterned and peeling. It was a shithole, this apartment. A place where hope goes to die. They both knew it.

Outside, a distant rumbling sounded, letting them know that the plow was on its way. This meant clean streets, the possibility of driving. Work. This meant work.

"I should get ready," he sighed. "If I'm late, the boss'll tear me a new one."

"Okay," she smiled, a glimmer in her eyes. "But dinner tonight? I made reservations."

A nod.

"I love you."

A mustered smile.

Lifting himself from the bed with a sigh, he rubbed at his goosepimpled flesh, toes curling against the frozen floorboards. While his skin, his body begged to return to bed, his mind welcomed the excuse to leave. It would be better, he reckoned, if they spent less time together. Perhaps distance really would make the heart grow fonder.

The sounds he made as he cracked his back broke the air, ringing out like gunshots. The sensations—the comfort his back felt, the sudden alertness in his mind—soothed him, saving him from his apathetic ways, the utter lack of feeling in his life.

Pause. The mirror projected a ghastly sight—his eyes were sunken, dark circles underneath; in this light, his sandy hair was almost white. Where had this old man come from? It couldn't be _him_; he was only 26. In his mind he could still picture his 18-year-old self, young, eager, ready to take life by the balls and make a statement.

But that wasn't the image reflected back at him. All at once he wondered when it had begun—when he had started aging, maturing, becoming a "responsible" adult. When?

Shaking his head, he continued on to the bathroom. It was a question for another day. Another day. Another day.

"And milk?" Her delicate voice asked, keeping him pinned to the doorway. "You'll get some on your way home?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?" She teased, a smirk settling on her face. "It's simple: you pick up the bottle, you bring it to the register—"

"I know."

"—you take out your wallet, you pay, you—"

"I know!" He interrupted once more, his nostrils flaring with annoyance. "I know how to buy a gallon of milk, alright? _Jesus_."

"You don't have to yell. I was just—"

"I know. Fine. Whatever. Just…don't."

Taking a deep breath, he removed himself once again, swearing under his breath as he realized he was out of razor blades. Damn, he would have to show up to work with stubble littering his face. What then? Jerry, his coworker, would make jokes all day, of course. Asshole. But maybe he could steal away to the drug store, sneak a quick shave before anyone noticed. Maybe…

But reality barged its way into his thoughts.

More noises pierced the air. It reminded him of those activities they made kids do back in elementary school—the ones used to mimic the sound of rain using only one's body. Snaps, claps, thumps and thuds.

First came the rattling bedsprings, so light, but distinct. Rusty enough to creak and squeal indignant. But this noise wasn't always telltale—this rattle could mean laughter, joy, intimacy.

Next, the sharp intakes of breath, rickety, gasping. He could hear the lungs contracting, flailing, panicking. Were they drowning? Running out of oxygen? SOS! SOS! MAYDAY, MAYDAY!

And finally a softer sound, the whisper of the tears as they embraced the mattress, a steady _plunkplunkplunk_ that brought the symphony together. A violin—light, soft, sad as all hell.

He knew those sounds by heart—he had heard them all too often. The distinct melody of her heart ripping at the seams.

All at once, his face contorted in an inwards groan. Again? Why _now_? _What _now?

His thoughts left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, separate from the acrid morning breath. To hold anger against her, in this state, it felt wrong. He composed himself, etching concern in the skin by his eyes, mouth. He forced himself to summon the courage, to turn and face her.

She was curled in a way that her legs were by her chest—the fetal position, almost. Her position allowed him to sit on the corner of the bed, close enough to feel the warm moistness of her breath against his arm, close enough to tuck a tendril of hair—golden as honey—behind her ear. Her skin was pale, white as the snow that fell outside.

"What's wrong?" He asked, attempting to fill his voice with the tenderness he knew was no longer there.

Still sobbing.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you; I'm just…" he sighed, "I'm really stressed out at work now. Is that what upset you?"

She shook her head 'no.'

"Honey, you can tell me."

Not a word.

"Annabeth," he tried again "If you let me know what's wrong, maybe I can help."

Nothing. Frustration.

"Annabeth."

A roaring sob broke impotent over her tiny body. He choked back a sigh, instead reaching for her arm, attempting to…to do _something. _Rub comforting circles? Pat her awkwardly? But as soon as he touched her, she slapped away his hand.

And with a wail, no less. On the spectrum, he knew, a wail has more feeling, more impotency that any normal sob or cry. For one to wail, he or she must be willing to invest in the act, to pour sound, life into the mix.

But at that moment, he didn't realize the artistry behind the expression. For him, it was the breaking point, the last straw. She was being greedy, that was what she was doing. Taking, taking taking—his time, patience, last shred of dignity.

"Annabeth," he screamed, waves of anger washing over him. "Tell me what the hell is the matter, or just. Shut. Up! _Damn _it! I swear…I swear…"

She cringed inward, as if expecting to be hit. A shocked hiccup broke the melody, the symphony of her tears. He had never screamed at her like that.

He himself was shocked—after everything, all that, his mother; he had promised himself he would never… What did this make him? He was nothing more than a brute, an animal, something he had told himself he would never become.

The wailing resumed.

Wincing, heart curling with guilt, he lay back down on his side of the bed, taking her into his arms.

"I swear, Al, I just want to help," he whispered into her hair, inhaling traces of strawberries, mint, her musky morning scent.

She took a shaky breath, and weaned herself from the crying. Wails beget sobs, sobs to tears, tears to hiccups.

After countless moments, she broke free from his arms, turning to look him in the eye.

Those eyes. _Her _eyes. Once alive, bright, electric grey and now…now…. He saw anguish in those eyes, hurt, wasted days and broken promises like a rotting landfill. But, he wondered, what did she see in his?

Before he could pursue this thought any further, she opened her mouth, finally attempting speech.

"I…" she hiccupped, "I'm late."

And as her teeth closed around that final syllable, her lips wrapping it up and placing a bow on it, time seemed to stand still. His heart, formerly beating, was now paused—cold and lifeless. Her eyes continued to search his face for something—_anything_—that might make it all better. He couldn't offer any.

Arms jerking back, he fought the urge to run, instead settling for a propped-up seated position, his back facing her.

His head burst with the knowledge, overwhelmed by a feeling comparable to thanksgiving night—heaviness, overconsumption, regret. But there was no belt to expand, no toilet in which to relieve himself of this fact.

He rubbed his temples madly, swallowing back tears and the urge to vomit. Bile rose in his throat, and his hands felt clammy—cold and dead against his face. Is that what he was? A ghost? A zombie?

She couldn't—_they _ couldn't. It…it hadn't been good, not for years. But why? Why had they stayed?

In college, sure, it was easy. They laughed, they had friends, common interests, intimacy. But that had left them at some point or another. When?

At first, he remembered, when the distance was still fresh and new, they thought they needed something to unite them as a unit. A hobby, a common goal, perhaps a pet—a yellow Labrador they picked out that she had named Sunny. But she had hated cleaning up after it and he soon realized he was allergic and so they sold it to the little girl next door.

But maybe what they needed was less tangible, more abstract. Maybe it was a move to the city—the countryside is overrated, they agreed. It was fine when they were attending school nearby, but now they needed culture, they needed _stimulation_. That, for sure, would bring them together. But the rents, the smells, the people. That wasn't it.

And now…now, as the snowplow mows by outside their building, it's a bigger apartment. That's what they need, right? More space, better view, safer location. That'll make it better, right? It has to.

But it wouldn't. He knew it wouldn't, just as she probably did. These patches? They never worked. Because the problem was greater—the problem, he realized, was _them_. His eyes glistened as he wordlessly watched through the window. Below, the plow—a great, orange mechanical beast—had passed, and now, people milled about, little ants trudging through the snow, beginning another long day of existence.

And as he gathered the courage to look back over his shoulder, to look at _her_, his heart fell flat with what his brain had taken so long to realize.

He did not love her, nor would he ever.


End file.
